The Immortality Figure
by PureLionn
Summary: Something is wrong with Max Lightwood-Bane. He is 107 as of last Sunday, and for the last 84 years he has looked 23. Though recently, when he looked in the mirror, he could have sworn he looked 24. Unravelling a mystery that forces him to consider his own identity, he finds himself working with shadowhunters and downworlders alike - and those who could have been family.
1. Chapter 1

**Important Story-Notes: I have read all of Mortal Instruments, the first Infernal Devices (though the internet spoiled what happens, so I know about it), and I'm not actively reading any, but I certainly will. On that note, I apologize for inconsistencies within the canon. This IS AU, technically, because I'm not researching the Lightwood/Herondale/Lewis bloodlines or such, and I'm twisting them to fit my story.**

 **Also, It's technically the year 2124, but for simplicities sake I'm going to pretend like tech didn't advance too much. There will me some futuristic things, but I don't want that to be the focus of the story. So...**

 _ **This will follow Max, my own version of descendants, new downworlders, new villains, and new plotlines. It will also explore the Magnus/Alec relationship as Alec aged and Magnus didn't, so there will be heavy Malec if you sit through the actual storyline to get to the scenes/flashbacks/references, whatever I decide to do.**_

 **And if it's not obvious, I do not own any characters, this is fanfiction, all the disclaimer stuff that needs to go before hand. It is purely for entertainment.**

 **Please leave a review telling me what you think, and I promise not to bug you again with a huge intro thing. Thanks for reading!**

Chapter One:

The studio apartment was small. A kitchen that was attached to a living room attached to a bedroom and somewhere near the front door there was a bathroom. It was clean and sparse, sure, but actual cleaning hadn't been done in a decade. The man who lived there probably didn't know how.

Cold tile of the kitchen turned into rough carpet of the living room, then back again, as Max Lightwood-Bane paced from one end of his small home to the other, increasing in pace subconsciously and trying desperately to keep his voice calm. His hand was out, his phone on speaker, and a tired sounding, comforting voice was crackling through the other end.

 _"Look, Blueberry, this could be nothing. You don't have to worry. Years weigh heavy on the heart. Do you think I look the same as I did three hundred years ago?"_

Max shook his head, taking a deep breath.

"I've seen pictures of you three hundred years ago," he said. And it was true. He got it, he did, but it was different. It wasn't a build up of memory behind the eyes, or a weary look or stooped shoulders. It was his jawline, his hair texture, his nose, things he shouldn't have noticed. Things that didn't change with emotions and experience. "But this is different. This is… I don't know. Something's wrong. Something is going wrong."

 _"Look, if you're so concerned, give a shout to the High Warlock there. Where are you, again?"_

"San Francisco," Max replied, stopping his panicking feet in the middle of the kitchen.

 _"San Fran. Haven't been there in ages. If I'm correct, though, you should be looking for a warlock named Evangeline Glimmer. Should be on Elkwood Street. She's very talented, and if she can't help you, I'm not sure I could."_

Max nodded, setting the phone down on the counter and leaning over it.

"But what do I do if I'm right?" he asked. "Should I come home?"

 _"You're not aging, Max,"_ Magnus snapped, and it was almost aggressively. It was surprising to hear his father speak so snappily to him, especially about something like this.

"Okay, but-"

 _"You're a hundred and seven. Do you think now, of all things, you'd stop being a warlock?"_

"I suppose you're right," Max said, sighing. "I'll find Evangeline and see if she knows anything."

 _"Give me a call if you figure it out. But I've got a client coming in ten minutes, so I might be out all night."_

Max nodded to himself, then quietly said goodbye and tapped the hang-up button on his phone. He sat like that for a while, staring at the 'call cancelled' screen on his phone until it went black.

A client, of course. High Warlock of Brooklyn. Didn't have time for problems unless they crashed his parties with someone dying. He shook his head. He was proud of his father, of course he was. Managing to hold onto High Warlock status for a century is impressive, but two? Of course he was busy. Magnus had never been able to stay away from the shadowhunter's world. He never would be.

Max straightened up, taking a breath and out of the corner of his eye caught sight of the photos pinned to the fridge. Him. His fathers. Clary. Isabelle. His cousins. Jace. Simon. Then it was him and Magnus and everyone was older and there were little ones running about. Then it was him and Magnus and the kids and the recent photos were just him or his father and even the other Lightwoods, after years of Clave training, had stopped visiting.

But it wasn't their fault and it wasn't his father's and it wasn't like it would have been any different growing up in any other family, but in any other family there may have been more than one other warlock.

"You'd know what to do," Max said, stepping towards the fridge and picking his favourite photo down from under the magnet. Both of his parents, walking away from the camera, talking, looking at each other - Clary took it before they got him. It was the only photo of his father he hadn't been aware of, and it was one of few that he had before his own time. When his dad was still a shadowhunter and they were unmarried and just happy and young. Alec Lightwood would know what to do.

 _Alec Lightwood would probably go to Magnus_ , a small voice in the back of his head told him. He shook his head and stared at the photo until he couldn't bear the ache anymore and pinned it back to the fridge.

Max turned to find his jacket, which had been thrown over the small couch in the corner.

Max couldn't go to Magnus though. He knew his father didn't like it. Didn't like him relying too heavily on family ties. Hence the prompt to go to Evangeline.

Magnus Bane was a funny character, and even moreso when you were the son of said character. He hadn't changed a pip in the time Max could remember. Everything was extravagance and flourish and pride, and despite what he'd said - forty years ago now - Max wasn't a fool, and he knew his father would be back to his old tricks soon, if he wasn't already.

Who was the girl he was talking about recently? Holly something? Some stupid girl with funny abilities and a pretty boytoy and his father was seeing double, he knew. Looking at them and thinking that if he did it just this once, one time only, maybe it would feel so familiar the hurt would go away.

Max slammed the door to his apartment behind him, much to the annoyance of his elderly neighbours, and took the stairs two by two to get down.

It wasn't really Max's fault, either, that he relied so heavily on family. Sometimes he forgot, but other times it was painfully apparent that he was not related to either of his fathers. That he was someone else entirely. Most times it wasn't an issue. It was a fact, sure, but not a reality to him. In other cases…

He threw a glamour over his skin and small horns to look more appropriate for walking in the streets and turned down the steeply sloping streets.

In other cases he knew there was something off about him. It wasn't his _fault_ though. He wasn't a powerful warlock. He wasn't even a very good warlock. His magic was pitiful at best of times and downright disappointing usually. His father had spent everything trying to train him and teach him how to harness his abilities, but it had never clicked for Max.

Maybe his magic was disappearing altogether. It had always been in small doses, but maybe it was well and truly gone. Maybe he was mundane, now. Aging.

Well, he was still blue. He could still glamour. Maybe not yet. Maybe soon?

The streets of San Francisco were obnoxiously steep and awful, but Max had gotten used to it in the last two decades. He enjoyed the view of the ocean from the top of the hills, and the colour of the houses lining the streets.

Despite the peace that had befallen downworlders in the last century - thanks dad and co - old habits died hard, and downworlders were naturally wary of those around them. Especially, Max thought, narrowing his eyes at a shadowhunter sitting on the steps of a building, when they popped up in the places he needed to be.

His hair was straight and red and hung over his eyes. He was looking down, and staring at a leather bound brown book in his hands. Black runes crawled up his right arm and neck, and and Max recognized the Runes for _stamina_ and _agility_ and _strength_. He glanced up at Max approached, watching him balefully but not saying a word. He wondered if he could tell he was a warlock.

Max knocked on the door stiffly.

"She must be out," the boy said, slumping into his own arms. "I've been here an hour."

Max raised an eye and knocked again, and begged his power not to backfire on him. When he knocked, he made sure to send the sound deep into the house, echoing loudly through wooden walls.

There was a sudden pounding of feet, and the door swung open.

"Can't a lady have some time to herself?" Evangeline Glimmer snapped, casting gold eyes up and down Max's figure, then over to the shadowhunter.

"My name is Max Lightwood-Bane," Max said, dipping his head respectfully. "I just have a few questions."

The shadowhunter jerked his head up, green eyes wide. _Lightwood_ always raised a few questions.

Max usually went with Lightwood-Bane when introducing himself. In some, but not all, downworlder interactions he'd just use Bane, since shadowhunters weren't always the most welcome. If he had to interact with an institute at all, though, he usually just used Lightwood. It was enjoyable, actually, watching them all freak out over the warlock who carried the shadowhunter name. They didn't know how to treat him.

"Lightwood-Bane?" Evangeline echoed. "Well aren't you a little surprise? Come in," she glanced down to the shadowhunter. "I'll deal with you later."

Max was ushered inside, and the door was shut on the shadowhunter.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Evangeline Glimmer was exactly one thousand, four hundred and twenty-one years old. She had lived through some things she and everyone else would rather forget, but she wore each day like a badge of honour on the white straps of a flowing gown. Her hair was like woven gold, tied up in a high, curling ponytail. Her eyes were pure gold and her skin was porcelain - where she had skin. From her neck, on her back and chest, and cover the upper parts of her arms were fine white and gold downy feathers. She made no movement to glamour them when dealing with the shadow world, though.

She was the High Warlock of San Francisco, and had been so for just over a century now, after the previous High Warlock had been killed by Valentine Morgenstern however long ago during the war. Her home was narrow and tall and like most warlocks, extravagant. Walking by white walls with masterpiece paintings hanging from brass nails made Max feel small and out of his league.

He followed the swaying form of the warlock through her home until they reach a living room with long, white couches and chairs and a coffee table with water in pitcher. It was well lit and had a high roof, and Max wondered how much was the doing of magic.

She offered him a glass, but he shook his head.

"What is it you're after, young one?" she asked, tilting her head and letting hair cascade over her shoulder. Max took a deep breath.

"I think I've started aging again," he said. "I wanted to know if you'd ever heard of it."

"And daddy couldn't help you?" she said, crossing her arms and falling into one of the couches. Max resisted rolling his eyes.

"My father wants me to learn from other warlocks," Max said carefully. "I'm sure if I really needed it he might help, but he doesn't think I'm aging."

Evangeline studied him standing awkwardly in the middle of her living room, back to a narrow, clean kitchen. She sighed and looked away eventually.

"I might be able to help, but I don't do anything for free," Evangeline warned, a sly smile playing at her lips. "Are you sure you can pay?"

"If you want something that isn't money," Max said. "I don't have anything to offer you."

"Nothing of importance?" Evangeline asked. "Not an enchanted necklace? Not a speck of stardust? Not even information or a phone number I might desire?" She sounded truly astonished. "Not anything?"

"Do you like toaster waffles bought at a gasstation?" Max asked.

Evangeline sat up, leaning her elbows on her knees. "Well, there is something you could do, that might also appease your father."

"What?"

"You can work for me," she said, standing up again without warning and scooping what looking like a black dayplanner off the coffee table. "I'm absolutely drowning in work, and don't care to deal with shadowhunters these days. Not since the war, when they started to feel they could come to me with non life-or-death problems."

"Work for you?" Max squeaked. "Like an apprentice?"

"Like an intern," Evangeline scoffed. "Please. We haven't taken apprentices since the dark ages. Oh, those were fun days though. Much easier to screw with mundanes," she said, huffing, then shoving the planner into Max's hands. "Nowadays everyone just thinks it's a movie set."

He tried to smile, and Evangeline clicked her fingers. Another planner appeared in her hands. "Go through there," she ordered, "and copy down all the shadowhunter appointments and events. You'll be handling them."

"I haven't agreed to anything!" Max said, tossing both planners aside. Evangeline stared at him.

"Young one, please," she laughed. "Come on, this had to be what you were looking for, right?"

"No, I want to know if I'm aging suddenly," Max said.

Evangeline rolled her eyes and collected the planners from the floor with a leisurely twist of her wrist. He watched them drift through the air, into her hands. "You really don't know anything about magic, do you?"

"I understand magic!" Max said, but he was much too defensive about it. Evangeline's lips quirked into a smile and she turned away.

"No you don't. You think I'm tricking you into servitude, but I turn down young ones daily who want this chance," she went on and Max instinctively turned to find the stairs down to the door. "And do you seriously think unravelling the mystery of why you might be aging will take an afternoon? You studying with me will not only put some credentials to your name, but give me time to assess you."

"So you don't know?" Max stammered.

"Of course not. A warlock aging is unheard of. But I do have some ideas," she said, turning back to him suddenly and holding out the day planners. Max had to step forward to take them back. "And once you deal with that shadowhunter sitting outside I'll tell you everything. That is, if you'll agree."

Max was silent. He didn't know. This seemed wrong, just agreeing that easily. But…

"Hey, don't you want to learn? Image how proud your father would be, being under my wing. Imagine the contacts and relationships and status you could develop," she went on, gold eyes staring him down. "And trust me, darling, a warlock is _nothing_ without a name for themselves."

Max nodded slowly.

"Fine. Fine, I'll do it," he stammered.

Evangeline smiled. "Great. Deal with whomever that is down there and come back up. I'll get everything I know out for you."

Max could do that, he decided. It would be that hard. It was only the very thing he'd watched his father do day in and day out for his entire life. He'd even helped Magnus a few times over the years, just like this.

"What should I say?" Max said.

"Tell him you represent me," Evangeline muttered, already pacing away. "And hear him out. He doesn't have an appointment so unless the world is about to end don't let him pull you into anything."

Evangeline dismissed him then, sweeping out of the room and around the corner, to who knows where, but Max had to turn and face the door again. He could do this. This would be easy. Easy. Good for him, too.

He descended the stairs, stopping to put both planners on a small end table with a flower vase on it. The door loomed in front of him. He could do it.

He swung open the door, and the shadowhunter sitting on the steps leapt to his feet, whirling to face him, then sinking with visible disappointment.

"I represent Evangeline Glimmer," Max said.

"Didn't you like… just meet?" he replied. Max scowled.

"My name is Max Lightwood-Bane, and if you want a warlock's help, congratulations, you've got me," Max went on, trying to sound somewhat intelligent. Or useful. If this kid needed him to summon a demon or something, he was out of luck. Magnus had said a lot of shadowhunters need to talk to demons.

"My name is Arthur Fairchild," he stammered, and Max paused.

Nope. Nope. Max was not doing this. He wasn't doing this with a _Fairchild_ there was absolutely no way-

"I just wanted to talk to Glimmer about the Fray Runes," he finished, and Max shook himself out.

Had he met Art before? Max couldn't remember exactly, but he did remember that Clary and Jace had a trio of children and that a only one of those children ended up staying in New York. The rest disappeared, and under Clave hypnosis probably were indoctrinated to believe Max wasn't family. Though, he reasoned, there were like two steps of adoption involved in their bloodlines. Not family at all, he supposed.

"Who's your father?" Max asked, almost too gently.

"David Fairchild," he responded, frowning.

"Son of Michael or Sam?" Max continued, leaning against the door. Peculiar indeed.

"Michael," Art said, narrowing his eyes. "How did-"

"Lightwood-Bane?" he snapped. "Really? You're gonna question how I know the children of Clary and Jace?"

Art swallowed nervously and took a step back. Every shadowhunter knew their own history back to front. Art was clearly just as rattled as Max was, and a lot worse at hiding it.

"Look, I just had a few questions about the runes," he said eventually, looking away. "I'll find someone else, though, if you-"

"Don't be stupid, what's your question?" Max said. Art jumped a bit and opened the book. He turned held out the page. It was an original drawing - Max would know them anywhere. Paper ripped out of a sketchbook when inspiration struck. Clary was plagued by voices her entire life, and when a rune came to her it might never come again. She always had a pencil on her. Underneath, it was labelled _compass_. It looked sort of like a compass. If a compass looked sort of like a lion.

"What about it?" Max said, trying not to pretend like it wasn't agony to look at her work.

"Well, see," Art began, nervously fidgeting on his feet. "A lot of the Fray Runes have been popularized and added into the Grey Book. Not all of them. _Fearless_ is still controversial, and _apathy_ nearly sparked a revolution, but _compass_ had never really been a problem. I mean, it was really great because a lot of people stopped getting lost, and it was-"

"What do you need," Max interrupted. How did his father do this all day?

"Well… It stopped working," Art said, letting his breath out. "I have it, here-" the boy paused and pulled the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the rune on the inside of his arm. "But since sunday, it hasn't been working. Not a peep of directional help."

Max blinked.

And what the hell was he - or Evangeline for that matter - supposed to do about it?

Art was looking at him, expecting an answer.

Max put on his best Magnus Bane impression.

"Well, that is unusual, I suppose. But if warlocks were experts in Clave runes, we'd be insufferable," Max said, hating the way Art frowned.

"But you knew Clary," he said. "Actually knew her. Had her runes ever failed before?"

Max froze, a sense of panic coming over him as he quickly ran through every family tie he knew of. Was he _actually_ the leading expert in Fray Runes, save for, maybe, Magnus? Oh god, that meant that he couldn't even demand Evangeline take over. He was literally the best person for the job.

 _He knew nothing._

"Look, Clary was never able to explain it," Max tried, hoping he sounded sympathetic. "And even if she was, I'm a warlock, not a shadowhunter."

"You don't seem like much of a warlock to me," Art snapped. "I just want to know if this has ever happened before. If there's a way to reverse it."

"I'm one hundred and seven!" Max shouted, and Art took a step back and nearly slipped off the steps. "I haven't seen the fall of empires or the crowning of kings or lived in the downworld. I live out on forty-second street. Okay? I can try and feel anything, if you want," Max went on, sort of losing his sense of what he was talking about. "But I truly don't think I'll be much help here."

Art looked stunned, then held out his arm.

"Amory will be pissed if I don't return with something," he muttered. Max had never done something quite like this - using raw magic. Magic was fickle and stupid at the best of times, especially for Max, but it was supposedly easy to shape. Like little nanobots. He should be able to send magic in and feel around.

He lifted his hand, and rest his fingertips around the shape of one of the more common runes, _strength._ He felt and prodded and sort of got a sense of life to it. Like a hamster on a wheel being struck by lightning. He moved his hand carefully up, unconsciously closing his eyes as the magic of the runes danced before him. When he got to the _compass_ , though, the signal went dead.

"It's just a tattoo," he murmured, then opened his eyes. Art looked concerned. Scared, almost.

"Just a tattoo?" he repeated.

"It's as if the magic has been… evaporated," Max said. "It's just a mark."

Art pulled his arm away, rubbing his hand over the black runes. "Do you think there's a way to get them back?" he said nervously. "I don't want the Fray Runes to go away. They mean so much to the new Clave ways. And… I mean, they mean so much to me too."

Same here, Max thought, and shook his head.

 _I'm aging._

The thought crept into the back of his mind like an infestation, but it gave him an idea.

A rune without magic. A mortal warlock. Was something… happening? Not just to him, though, was this important, and not just one warlock with a weird sickness? Was it happened to the world.

Max shook himself out, looking over the red-haired Fairchild. He was what, seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen?

 _If you're going to tangle with shadowhunters, Blueberry, find the young ones. They're more likely to rebel, and generally a lot cuter._

His father gave questionable advice, but he had the feeling that if this was anywhere near what Magnus had to deal with on a daily basis, he'd be taking all of his advice.

"Give me a few hours," Max said, and Art tilted his head, clutching the book to his chest. "I might get a few answers in a minute. I'll… send you a fire message. Or something. We'll figure this out."

Art seemed stunned for a moment, then glanced at his book, and back up to Max.

"A Fairchild and a Lightwood," he said, almost laughing. "I should have known. There was a reason my grandfather moved out of New York."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Max ascended back up to the main room of Evangeline's apartment still a bit unsteady. Art's cousin - second cousin? - Irena Wayland had always been kind and funny and sweet, but she'd never really mentioned talking with any of Michael's kids or her cousins. In fact, Max had all but forgotten Art even worked in this institute.

The Fairchild-Wayland-Lightwood line got a little bit messy. But it broke down something like this:

Jace had, eventually, settled as a Wayland, mostly because it had always been his family name in his mind. Clary, when they married, remained a Fairchild. Their children were Waylands, though being astutely aware of the fact that they had no blood claim to the name - and blood was very important to shadowhunters - Michael, when he moved away, took Fairchild. Sam's only child was a close friend of mine during his life, one of the only descendants that believed me and Magnus to be true Lightwoods, and always claimed he felt that Jace's adoption into the Lightwood family made that their name.

He always went by Wayland, though.

Their youngest child, little Josie Wayland, had always been a Wayland, though on missions in the mundane had been reported using Fray.

Not one family member considered picking up Morgenstern.

For that, Max thought, the entire Clave was thankful.

Regardless of this, the Wayland/Fairchild children had split pretty radically, some for work, others over disagreements. Max was not too shy to admit he was the cause of a few of them. All of them were born in Idris, all of them went through Clave training. They, of course, were at the beginning of the downworlder-shadowhunter alliance, so it didn't transfer over as well. They were all a little brainwashed.

Jace and Clary had always been so okay with Magnus and Alec that the rift brought between them and their children was inevitable. Especially when some of them didn't age.

Evangeline was not in the living room, and Max wandered around white carpet aimlessly staring at painting on the wall, mulling over the idea of working with a Fairchild. Would it be weird? It's not like they're biologically or emotionally family, but they're supposed to be, right?

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Evangeline called, and Max spun around to watch the half-feathered warlock drift from down the hallway.

"Arthur Fairchild," Max said, as if that answer anything. Evangeline shrugged it off.

"Shadowhunters all look the same to me darling," she said, instead of something actually comforting.

"He's dealt with, we've made our arrangement, now please, to the matter at hand - am I aging?" Max said, trailing after her as she strode through the living room and into the kitchen.

She seemed to consider the question, then spun around to face him in an extravagantly unnecessary way.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I do have some other weird reports."

"Weird reports?" Max echoed, leaning against the island in the kitchen. Evangeline nodded severely.

"I thought they all had lost their minds, or some weird shadowhunter-angelic thing was going on again, but with you - maybe not."

"Stop evading," Max growled.

She pursed her lips. "Fine. A vampire came to me, recently, all riled up. He was panicky, terrified, actually. He had said that his fangs had gone dull. Went on and on about how he was struggling to drink blood and felt like he was starving."

"What did you do?" Max asked, and Evangeline shrugged delicate shoulders.

"Gave him a nail file and sent him home," she offered, and when Max stared at her, unimpressed, Evangeline scowled back and corrected herself. "I told him to drink without biting. It's not a big deal. Vampire fangs chip or whittle down if they've bitten something hard all the time."

"Then why are you bringing it up?" Max asked.

"Because it's still weird for fangs to uniformly become not fangs, right? Plus, there was the Unseelie Court incident," Evangeline said.

Max was going kill her if she kept teasing him like this.

"What's the Unseelie Court incident?" he said.

"I wasn't there," she prefaced, holding her hands over her chest in a gesture of innocence. "But this Unseelie warrior came to me talking about these two shadowhunters who'd come down looking for answers about some long-lost brother and as the fey are known to do, they tricked the poor guy into consuming something from their land," she said, then added: "Come time to leave and the Unseelies to make a deal, the two just walked out."

"They ate fey food and walked?"

"That they did," Evangeline confirmed. "So sure, I've heard some strange things, but I didn't think they were connected. I still don't really."

"Art said that the Fray Rune _compass_ had stopped working," Max offered. "That's another thing."

"First, what the Hell's a Frey Rune, second, runes don't just stop working," Evangeline said, finally stepping out from the kitchen and moving across the living room to where a large, old looking brown bookcase stood, entirely out of place in the white and gold.

"The Runes that Clary Fairchild drew," Max explained quickly, and it seemed to jog Evangeline's memories.

"Oh, right, Valentine Morgenstern and his disastrous everything. I remember those years," she said, almost fondly. "Clary was of pure angel blood, right?"

"Right," Max said. "But the runes she drew had been perfectly fine. Art says one's stopped working though."

"That is peculiar indeed," Evangeline murmured, trailing one gold-painted finger across the spines of dusty books. They came in various sizes and shapes and colours and ages, but she stopped at one that looked particularly old and witchy. Drawing it out, Max found that the cover was bound in what looked like some time of lizard skin, printed with a design he was sure his father would have been able to identify.

"This is my baby," Evangeline said proudly. "Took me three centuries to possess it as my own, with nobody willing to kill me for it."

"What is it?" Max asked. Warlock - especially High Warlocks - always had a personal spell book. But there were other books older than those and more dangerous that were coveted. Often kept in the Spiral Labyrinth, away from any one warlock. Max wondered if this book was like that - if this book was something his father would want him to stay out of.

Well, Max thought, his dad would probably have been first in line to get in trouble, so at least it's not a new thing.

"The Doomsayer's Book," she said, and Max nearly got a coin to flip to decide if he should be generally worried or just role his eyes. What a name. Warlocks were sort of awful sometimes.

"What's that?" Max tried.

"Way back when," Evangeline began, "When some king or another was ruining his land's economy, a group of mundanes, most of them gifted with the sight, by accident or blood, formed a sort of doomsday group. What glimpses of the shadow world they saw terrified them, and they thought it was the beginning of the end of the world."

"Clearly they were wrong," Max said. Evangeline nodded, cracking open the book and letting settled dust spring up from a creaky spine, spinning through the air with new life. The pages were old and dusty and brown and the ink was faded and black. The writing small, in neat cursive.

"Oh, of course," she agreed. "Absolutely crazy the lot. But, they did accidentally stumble upon a few things. Back then, the shadow world was small. Shadowhunters weren't… really that popular yet. Jonathan Shadowhunter was still alive, to say the least. Downworlders had been around for ages, though, and at that time still interacted with humans."

Max would have liked her to hurry up, but she spoke with a hypnotically slow voice, and he could nearly feel the air of history around her.

"These crazies did talk with a few warlocks who summoned them a few small demons and they did meet a fey or two and some things they learned were… Important," Evangeline went on, she sighed, then flipped the heavy pages to show Max a well-drawn image of a cup. The Mortal Cup. "When the shadowhunter's world was small and contained and the Clave wasn't set up, all the angelic gifts - all the information, all the could be's and will be's were in one location. One smart downworlder could and brought it all down."

"So this Doomsayer's Book…?" Max pressed.

"Is mostly garbage," Evangeline clarified. "A lot is them giving false information on vampire and werewolves and witches and seelies, but in that garbage is information that trickled down from a time when nobody knew it was important. Little things, like-" here she paused, and read from the page beside the drawing of the Mortal Cup. "-the vampires are planning to take over all mundane life and turn them to the darkside. If they do not win, the werewolves are going to use the Metallic Cup and change all mundane life into the half-men we see with tattooes."

"Oh," Max said, as the implications set in. That wasn't a little bit close to literally anything that happened, but it wasn't _wrong_ on the function of the cup. "Hidden in all the nonsense might be an answer."

"Correct," Evangeline said, looking down at the book. "There's references to artifacts in here I'm pretty sure even the Clave have lost."

"Will you let me read it?" Max said eagerly. "Or, at least, take it to show Arthur? I'm meeting him to try and give some answers. Part of-"

"No!" Evangeline snapped, cutting him off. "The Doomsayer's Book doesn't leave my home. You may read it here, on that couch, with my permission. Not before. And you're not going anywhere tonight."

Max shut his mouth. Huh?

"I promised-"

"You promised me first," she said, back to the sickly sweet voice. "And if you read the calendar I gave you, I have a shadow- sorry, _you_ have a shadowhunter appointment tonight." She smiled. "Come on, there's work to be done."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

Max groaned as he twisted the map one way then another, trying to figure out where he was supposed to be going.

It was sort of his fault, but not really _his_ fault, since Evangeline had given him a stupid bracelet and told him to track it to find where he was going. He had insisted on her at least telling him the address and that was a good thing, apparently, because he was definitely not able to track it.

His phone rang.

Groaning, he shoved the map away, unable to fold it properly again, and fished out his phone.

His father.

He flipped it to his ear and stepped out of the way of the main sidewalk. It was getting darker now, and after running errands for Evangeline all afternoon, he was sent out on this stupid appointment. A healing thing, he thought. Max had been hoping to get it finished quickly and still be able to meet Arthur, but it looks like that wasn't going to happen.

"Hey," he said, and immediately his father's voice echoed back at him.

 _"Hey Blueberry. How did Evangeline go? My client is… elsewhere at the moment, so I thought I'd call you up."_

"You're High Warlock buddy insisted I trade manual labour for her information."

There was a silence.

 _"And you agreed?"_

"What else was I supposed to do!" Max shouted, then tried to hush his voice as mundanes passing him turned to stare. He took a breath. "Look, I think I really am aging. She told me about these weird things happening to the downworlders, but also a shadowhunter - uh, Arthur Fairchild - told me that one of the runes Clary drew had stopped working."

 _"Stopped working? Completely?"_

"That's what he said. And I tried some magic on it, it didn't feel lively like a normal rune," Max went on, peering at the map in the disappearing light and wondering if maybe he'd taken a wrong turn a street back.

 _"I haven't heard of something this concerning since I - since I accidentally framed Billy the Kid for murder."_

"Dad, you're not that old," Max muttered.

 _"I don't think your understanding of American history is up to bat,"_ Magnus replied, almost concerned, but in Max's defense his response was accurate about ninety percent of the time. Magnus liked to make stuff up.

"I have so much I want to ask you," Max continued on anyway, ignoring the comment. "But it's actually not a great time. I'm meeting with a… A… What was her name…"

 _"You're meeting with someone? Are you developing a client base?"_ his father said, a little too proud.

"No, no, it's something for Evangeline," Max replied.

 _"I understand. Next time, don't sell yourself for information. That's how I ended up indebted to the tzar-"_

"That's definitely not a true story, and either way I probably don't want to hear the details," Max said, cutting him off. "I'll call you in the morning."

 _"Alright, Blueberry,"_ Magnus said after a slight pause. A pause Max knew well. An "I worry about you" pause. _"Don't run yourself down doing this though. And don't worry. You're fine. I know it."_

"I know," Max said quietly. "Bye."

Sliding the phone back into his pocket was hard, since the only thing Max really wanted to do was move back home and forget all this had happened. This was the beginning to ever single story Max had heard growing up. Some weird rumours, some weird people, a deal being made, a freaky book.

Max wasn't sure if this was how he wanted to follow in his father's footsteps.

The shadowhunter he was looking for - Collins Summercrest, as he remembered her name - was somewhere around here, he was sure. Knowing that he was closer, he decided to try the tracking again.

He summoned his magic and pressed it into the bracelet, and hope and hope and hoped but eventually he let his breath out and his shoulder fell. No dice.

But he did have the strangest urge to try left, so he did that.

And wandered for another twelve minutes before finally, _finally,_ finding the address he was looking for. It didn't look like the type of place you'd find a shadowhunter. Old, narrow, decrepit. A mundane-built place. He banged on the door.

He was tired from fighting up the San Francisco hills, so when the young girl swung open the door, he wasn't pleased to see inside to a narrow staircase.

"Who are you?" she scoffed, glancing up and down his body. He tossed his hand and removed his glamour, blue skin and horns fading into view. She narrowed her eyes.

"We need Evangeline Glimmer, not… you," she snapped. "This is serious."

"I am serious," Max snapped back. "My name is Max Lightwood, I represent Evangeline Glimmer."

"Lightwood," she breathed. "Like Xavier Lightwood?"

Max scoffed. "Probably? I don't know. Like Alec Lightwood. Like Isabelle Lightwood. Try that."

She narrowed her eyes at him again.

"You're the Bane kid, aren't you," she scowled, and Max gave an awkward little curtsey. She stepped aside. "You better be as good as your father."

 _You will be severely disappointed,_ Max thought, and handed her what he assumed was her bracelet and headed upstairs.

The upstairs smelled of sickly oils and herbs and treatments that probably sucked to administer and receive. Max wished Evangeline had given him a file on what was going on, or the like. The top floor was small and compact, with chairs and couches and a table and everything was sort of underwhelming, save for the shadowhunter boy stretched out across one of the couches, covered in sweat, bandages crossing his torso. Collins had been long blonde hair and pale skin and short height, so he doubted that there was a blood relationship between her and the tall, dark-skinned, broad shouldered man who seemed to be hurt. Blood was seeping out from under the bandages over his chest.

"It's a Proxy Demon wound," the third occupant of the room asked, skinny to the point of bony, with a long, hooked nose and fluffy blonde hair with flowers twisted through it. His ears were long and pointed, but Max didn't see any hint of a rune on him. Most curiously, was the bright red ribbon tied around his neck. He was a faerie, and likely full-blooded. What he was doing here was anybody's guess.

Max dug back in the archives of his brain to remember what a Proxy Demon was, exactly. And how to treat such a wound.

Proxy Demons were little demons that were released during the careless summon of a greater demon. They could sneak out of the summon pentagram usually unnoticed, and mostly invisible. Their lifespans were short, and they were mostly harmless to the general public, since they didn't need human blood for anything.

What did they attack with, though, if they needed something? This trio had probably tried to summon a demon for something and the guy had gotten hurt in the process. Which meant he… He was stung… but they were like wasps. It shouldn't have done this. Which meant venom. Which meant an allergic reaction?

"Are you going to stare at him or treat him?" the fey boy said, looking up from where he was sitting, using thin hands to press a cold cloth over the shadowhunter's face.

"No, not an allergic reaction, it would be an infection. Which meant Max would need to put… some form of salve on it, but what form.

This must not be the first appointment. It must be a repeated procedure to drive out infection. But Max wasn't sure he knew what that meant.

A phone rang, making everyone jump.

"It's Oversong," Collins said, then disappeared back down the stairs to answer it.

"Mr. Warlock, would you be interested at all in helping?" the faerie said immediately, and Max jumped into action. There were things set up all along the table, and while it was a mess, Max was sure he'd be able to figure it out.

Either way, he wasn't doing another of Evangeline's missions without getting an instruction manual first.

He had a spellbook at home. A small one, from his father's collection. He tried to snap his fingers and call the spell book to him, but all that appeared in his hands was a baking cookbook. Max scowled at it and tossed it aside.

"I'm not going to lie," Max said, and the faerie rolled his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Walk me through what Evangeline usually does."  
He looked up, then seemed to give in and grabbed a jar off the table.

"I can't walk you through the magic," he said. "I don't know it. But I can show you what it looked like from the outside."

Max nodded. That would be something, at least.

"Here," he began. "Evangeline would crush these little bones and it would look like she was performing some sort of magic. All glowy and such. Then she'd mix it into a little bit of this water, no magic, then soak one of these pads in it, wave her hand, magic, then she'd redo the bandages, with this on the wound first."

The faerie moved so quickly with his explination, but Max was pretty sure he'd be able to keep his head on. He grabbed the bones, wondering exactly how many he'd need. He grabbed what looked reasonable, since they were sort of small, and tossed them into the mortar and pestle set the faerie had set before him.

Time for magic.

Usually, crushing magic was just to prep the atoms and such and elements in the material, so he drew the best version of magic he had for that out of himself and forced it down the length of his arm, into the bones as we set to work crushing them.

"That looks a little…" The fey said, narrowing crystalline blue eyes. "Heavy."

"Oh," Max murmured, pulling back a bit. Moderation. Moderation. Okay, the bones were powder.

He poured some of a cloudy vase of water into a small bowl, then tossed the bones in, using a thin stick to stir. It was mushy and paste-like, and the faerie was frowning.

"No," he said. "No it should be liquid. More water."

Max nodded and did just that.

Once it was truly liquid, he grabbed the pad and dribbled the water over it, until it was soaked through. The faerie didn't comment, so he figured it was alright. Now. Magic. This magic was tricky. Because it could just be a simple activation spell, so that the medicinal effect took place. Or, it could be vital component that was an ingredient in itself.

"Did she say anything, doing this?" Max asked.

The faerie shook his head.

Probably activation then. Probably.

Max swallowed nervously and waved his hand slowly over the pad. Blue light sparked on the edges, but didn't carry over. He refused to meet the faerie's eyes as he tried again. He waved his hand with a little more force, and this time the blue sparks caught, and it washed over the pad. The faerie didn't comment, so it must have looked similar.

Once that was done, the faerie moved and carefully undid all the bandages surrounding the wound, which once revealed, actually looked sort of familiar. He'd seen one before.

The man's chest had a black welt on it, it look like, that oozed dark blood and stained already dark skin black. Max laid the pad over top, and he felt it sizzle at the contact. That was good.

The shadowhunter groaned and shifted, and the faerie murmured something and waved his own magic over the man's head, and he was silenced. The faerie finished wrapping the binding, and Max stood up, wiping sweaty, nervous hands on his hips and hoping he could leave soon.

"Max," he said, instead of leaving. "Lightwood, just so you know."

The faerie looked up.

"Lexan."

Max nodded, watching as he wrapped up the process and quieted the restless shadowhunter down.

"Are you a healer, then," Max asked.

"I am. But my magic works best for the fey, and mediocre for downworlders. Shadowhunters a little beyond my reach," Lexan said, straightening up to his fully height for the first time - which, admittedly, was pretty average - and looking down at the shadowhunter. "But I could just leave him to die."

"Who is he?"

"Desmond Branwell," Lexan said, crossing his arms. "He's sort of an idiot. I mean, who gets serious injured by a Proxy Demon?"

Max almost managed to smile, but Collins came leaping up the stairs.

"Oversong's getting twitchy about Des," she said. "He's going to send Em and Am down on us if we don't come up with a plausible excuse for all this."

"What did you tell him?" Lexan asked.

"That he was out at the moment and they'd talk later," she snapped, running a hand through messy blonde hair. She had a rune - soundless - what crept up her neck and nearly onto her cheek.

"You guys got injured breaking the law, didn't you?" Max asked flatly. How typical. Why couldn't the warlocks ever help the rule abiding shadowhunters?

Collins scowled at him, but Lexan nodded.

"We got Evangeline to summon a greater demon. Orcus. We had a few questions, and needed answers, but-"

"Did the demon get out?" Max interrupted.

Lexan shook his head quickly. "Thank God, no," he murmured, pulling at the red ribbon around his neck habitually. "But Des was injured. Thankfully not by Orcus. We weren't expecting the lashout Orcus gave us, so Evangeline promised to treat us nearly free of charge."

Nearly was an interesting word.

"Look, I have to go to the institute anyway," Max said. "If Collins wants to come with me, I can get you guys off the hook for this," he went on, before really deciding if he could or couldn't. He had a few ideas, but honestly, he didn't know these shadowhunters. It might not go so well.

The other two didn't seem to know that, though, and visibly relaxed.

"Whatever you say, though, I was never here," Lexan said. "Collins and Des would be in more trouble for trying to make a deal with my king that for Orcus."

"King," Max echoed, and even he knew that the Seelie Court had a Queen. "You're Unseelie?"

Lexan held his gaze then looked away.

Collins didn't seem to notice. "Thank you," she said, wrapping her hands around his arm. "Thank you so much. Sorry I was mean. Should we go?"

Max nodded.

And this was a good plan, because even if he failed, he didn't actually know where the Institute in this city was, so it was working to his advantage.

"Lead the way," he said, and she smiled at him and he followed her down the stairs. Max tossed his glamour up as they entered the city street, now fully plunged into darkness. Thankfully the walk was almost exclusively downhill, but Max had decided a few years ago that someone had to work hard to be unhealthy living in San Francisco.

They approached the waterline, the ground flattening out. Massive ships clung to massive docks, looming in the night, but Max and Collins walked pasted all that, until there was an old building with a 'for lease' sign hanging off it.

"You'll want to wave the glamour off," Collins advised, and Max did just that - turning the old building into a state-of-the-art, high-tech looking building. Smooth white walls, sharp angles, low. It was sort of small, but Collins kept talking. "It doesn't look like much, but it was eighteen floors going down into the ground, so, that's something."

"Wow," Max said, and Collins led him down the path to the front door, which she opened without a key and let him inside.

Immediately, dozens of eyes milling about the main room - which held nothing unusual or magical, _just in case_ , turned to stare at him. He deglamoured himself, just for effect. He already made an entrance. May as well make it spectacular.

A tall, strong looking older man strode forward.

"Collins, where have you been? It's been days," he snarled. "All you had was weak excuses and small phone calls and wouldn't tell us anything. Not only have you been evasive and insubordinate, but the institute has been-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Oversong," Max broke in, not know his first name but thinking this was probably better anyway.

"Collins Summercrest and Desmond Branwell have been assisting me in a very important project. They're silence was mandatory, and I'll continue to need them for the time being," he said, smiling politely. Oversong scowled at him.

"Well, who the Hell are you?" he snapped.

"My name is Max Lightwood-Bane," he said. "My father, Magnus Bane, is working on a particular set of magics to do with my aunt's, Clary Fairchild's, runes. We needed shadowhunter steles to do so, but couldn't allow the progress to be reported on before it's completion. That being said, we still aren't complete, so I'll have to apologize." Max took a deep breath, then continued. "I assure you, this has all been cleared with the Clave - highly classified information - and the High Warlock of the city, Evangeline Glimmer, and everything is safe. We wish we could have informed you sooner, but due to the nature of Magnus, he had an idea and we weren't going to go against it."

Oversong just stared at him. Silence echoed through the institute, and Max wondered if that meant they thought he was an idiot, or actually believed him. He decided to keep talking just in case.

"We've made astonishing progress. But I believe it still might be a few more weeks. You shadowhunters are doing very important work."

He still stared back, until finally speaking, and in a more calm voice, asked: "Are you figuring out the _compass_ rune problem?"

"That's classified," Max said, but winked anyways. "And speaking of, I'd like to formally request that Arthur Fairchild join our team. We could use his expertise on the runes."

Oversong didn't believe him, he knew that, looking at green eyes watching him. But he didn't believe Max was lying, either. He just knew something was off. And that was okay. Because he could call Magnus or Evangeline and neither of them liked shadowhunters enough to sell Max out, and if he asked the Clave about it, it was 'classified'. There wouldn't be an answer if it were true.

"Fine," he growled. "But they better be brought back here safe."

Max nodded seriously. "Of course, Mr. Oversong. You have my word."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Max wasn't allowed to take the Doomsayer's Book out of Evangeline's home, which was fine, really, but it meant that his new gaggle of geese would have to come there. And considering Evangeline's deposition towards them, he didn't think it worth his time to convince her otherwise.

So, he used his privileges of copying over her agenda to find an evening he could assure the house to himself.

"Alright," Evangeline was muttering. "Don't you dare harm that book, okay? I'll be back by midnight, at the latest, so-"

"Evan," Max interrupted. "I am not your child. I am one hundred and seven. I can light a stove and make dinner all by myself."

She scowled at him, then turned and disappeared down the steps, a glamour shimmering over feathered skin to make it disappear. The door clicked behind her, echoing strangely in the tall, classy apartment. Max sat in silence, running his hands over the cover. The others should be here, soon.

He hadn't dared tell them to wait for his fire message, as sending them had the awful habit of not working at all and interrupting some poor mundanes evening with a _flying, on fire sheet of paper._

So he'd spoken to them all ahead of time, and made sure that if Evangeline left late, they still wouldn't bump into each other. On the other hand, Evangeline had not left late, and now he was stuck just waiting. So he opened the book, flipping through heavy, ink-stained papers. It seemed to be soaked in dust, and the words were hard to decipher. He lifted a hand, snapping his fingers and trying to either translate externally on the page, or just in his head. Neither worked. He hoped Lexan's fey magic would extend to this particular version of english.

More minutes passed, and Max was in the kitchen, pouring iced water into a glass when he heard the knocking on the door. Max hadn't gotten his father's taste for alcohol - despite Magnus' best attempts to initiate him into the extravagant party scene.

He left the glass behind, though, and went to get the door.

Art was the first to arrive, naturally, Max thought. As the door swung open and the red-haired shadowhunter appeared, looking ready to sprint away. Max tried to smile, but Arthur didn't respond to it, so he just stepped back and allowed him in.

"Do you really think this book might have answers?" Art said, shaking off his coat. He looked cold.

"Maybe," Max admitted. "Truthfully, I just don't know squat about the shadowhunter world. I wouldn't know a reference if it shouted at me."

Art nodded. "And your father couldn't help you?"

"I think everyone keeps forgetting that Magnus Bane is a little bit preoccupied with his own life," Max muttered. He knew it was a reasonable response - they had a major situation, and they were stuck with the blue skinned, bad copy version of his father. Who couldn't even translate a text.

How were warlocks supposed to function in the modern era? Everything was always 'ancient secret' or 'forgotten language' or 'dark magic' and nobody taught those things. Ooh, Max, look at the super spooky old book that every other warlock can read but you because you're young and nobody actually speaks these languages.

"And what this I hear about you working with Collins Summercrest?" Arthur added, effectively blocking Max from the stairwell when he turned to face him, so the blue warlock supposed they were going to have the conversation down here.

"Sort of working," Max said. "I mean, I lied, completely, but it's not a lie anymore."

Art narrowed his eyes, then shrugged and gave up on it. Max was a little offended by the look, but before he could come up with something suitably snarky, there was a loud _crash_ from upstairs.

They both froze.

"Glimmer home?" Art stammered, eyes locked at the top of the steps. He hadn't even finished before Max was shoving past him, taking the steps two at a time and launching himself into the living room. Panting from adrenaline, his eyes flickered over every surface, and his foot rested in the puddle of water leaking from the kitchen. Shattered glass littered the floor in near-impossibly small pieces. Like the glass itself had been obliterated, not just dropped.

He felt Art behind him.

"What is it?" the shadowhunter whispered. Max shook his head, trying to think of any magic that might help him figure it out. With a bit of inspiration, he waved his hand over his own eyes, casting something similar to a _sight_ rune. At least, in theory. It took a moment to flicker into effect, but his vision dimmed, slowly, until everything was in black and white.

He turned his head, feeling like he was underwater. Art, behind him, blazed like the sun itself, so he gently pushed the shadowhunter out of his vision and crept through the not-so-empty apartment. Everything was still, monotone, he turned and-

There was something different about the large, glass windows along the far wall. Everything was black and white, but windows didn't typically have any colour to give away to begin with. The landscape behind was dark and colourless, but Max peered closer, tilting his head. Just barely, just a hint, maybe…

Like green and blue and white swirling around on the mirror.

Then-

It shattered.

The window exploded, a million, diamond like shards flown outwards, in all directions, like sharp raindrops. Max threw his arms up to protect his face and eyes and heard Art shriek in surprise. The glass rained around them, and then there was the sound of footsteps.

Max turned, feeling the glass beads cutting into his skin from where they'd fallen down his shirt and gotten on his skin, but could only catch a glimpse of the figure darting through the apartment.

Arthur was faster than Max was, and recovered quicker too, launching himself forward and drawing the previously glamoured seraph blade Max probably should have been expecting.

" _Charmeine_ ," Art said, naming the blade and swinging forward. The figure just managed to dart out of the way, and Max was able to see it better as it turned to avoid the blade. Thin, short, with a black mask covering its mouth and leaving blue eyes just visible beneath a drawn, fur hood, despite the summer. It's clothes were all dark and tight and it looked male, but could've been female. Could have been a warlock, a werewolf, a vampire, a seelie, a shadowhunter a mundane, an angel, a demon, it could have been anything, and Arthur Fairchild was swinging his blade around like it was an angry dog.

The thing leapt, two feet, up to an impossible height and grabbing the hanging light fixture, swinging, then ripping it down. Art swung, the seraph blade slicing through the light and sending sparks showing around. Wind rippled through the now permanently open window. Max was frozen.

Whatever it was spun and raced down the hallway, and Art raced after it. Max forced himself to move, and ran too. Down, into a room - a bathroom - and- and-

"Where'd he go?" Arthur panted, eyes wild, blade gripped with two hands. Max brushed past him, vision still colourless.

Nothing in the room. He looked at everything, carefully, but it was colourless, all of it, black and white and without signs of life.

"It's not here," Max stammered.

"It's got to be somewhere," Arthur growled, spinning and disappearing from the bathroom. Max shook his head. In magic, not necessarily. He waved a hand over his eyes. Waited a moment. His vision did not regain colour.

 _Crap._

Sighing, and hoping his magic was weak enough to wear out on it's own, Max turned to go look for his apparently impulsive shadowhunter friend. Art was standing in the main room, staring out the broken window, sparkling shards of glass glittering at his feet, window billowing through the room.

 _Shadowhunters are so dramatic._

"Look, Evangeline's not without enemies," Max sighed. "That could have been literally anything."

"Maybe," Art agreed.

"Don't-" Max began, but then didn't know what he wanted Art to not do. Don't go after it? Don't worry? Don't stand there like a model staring off into the sunset?

The doorbell rang, so it didn't matter.

"I'll get it," Max offered, when Arthur spun to the sound, glowing blade drawn. "And cool that thing down."  
Max skipped down the steps, peering out through the little hole in the door first, just in case. A sort of familiar fey-face peered back.

He opened the door.

"I was going to knock sooner, but your window exploded," Lexan said, tilting his head. Beside him, Collins - too short for him to have seen through the hole - rolled her eyes.

"Did you start without us?"

"Do you think whatever we're doing requires exploding windows?" Max stammered back.

Collins shrugged.

"No, there was a-" Max hesitated. "Something. Something happened. It's gone now," he assured them. Lexan nodded and brushed past him, into the room, tugging on the ribbon around his neck.

"Safe here?" he said.

Max nodded. "You are all armed, aren't you?" he said anyways, and considering Arthur, he was sure that he was the safest one here. The shadowhunters would be willing to leap into danger and the magicians could just struggle with colour blindness.

"So what attacked?" Collins said, striding past both Max and Lexan, and heading upstairs. "Should we report it to the Clave?"

"No," Max said quickly. "And we don't know. I think it travels through glass."

"I'm sorry?" he heard Arthur call from upstairs.

"I hear Fairchild's here already," Collins muttered, rolling her eyes. Max glanced back to Lexan who seemed impassive.

Max repeated himself. "I think it was travelling through glass. I mean, that, or it was able to shield all signs of life from my magic. And explode glass."

He did not, though, add that for his magic, fooling it might actually have been really easy.

"I'll take a look," Lexan said, and forced himself past Max and into the newly-opened up living room. Max was getting a little sick of people passing him.

"Do you think it's related to all this," Collins said, waving her hands around to gesture to everything.

"No," Max said, shaking his head. "I think Evangeline's got enemies."

Collins seemed to agree, and Max turned his attention to Lexan, who was leaning down by the shattered drops of glass. Max wasn't entirely sure how unseelie magic worked, apart from the tell-no-lies, trick everyone, part of it, but he was sure that if it had something to do with life, the fey could see it.

Lexan looked puzzled though.

"This isn't a regular shatter pattern," he said. "Usually, you'd see smaller pieces from the point of impact, spreading out into larger ones, these are… the entire pane became exactly the same size-" he paused, lifting up a handful of glass. "-look, they're all perfectly uniform."

Or, Max corrected, perhaps not everyone relied on magic as heavily as he might have assumed.

"Do we know of any glass demon or magic?" Max asked.

"Any warlock, maybe," Lexan said, shrugging and standing up, brushing his hands together to rid them of any straggling shards. His hands were bleeding, between his fingers, and Max had the urge to try and help, but reasoned that Lexan was the better healer of the two, and if he wasn't bothered Max shouldn't be. "But this isn't just shattering a window. This was something designed to shatter glass. A specific spell crafted for it. And that's a pointless spell, if you ask me."

Max listened, then realized everyone was waiting for him to speak.

He'd manage to convince them into believing he was the leader here. Maybe he should hand that over to Collins.

"Maybe there will be answers in the Doomsayer's Book," he said.

"Where is it?"

"Table."

"Nope," Collins called back. "Unless there's another table…?"

Max spun around. The book was gone. He swung his head around, everything still in shades of black and white.

"Oh-"

So, maybe whatever it was wasn't one of Evangeline's enemies.

Max didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that whatever they were trying to figure out had a villain attached to it. Whether it was that thing, or someone controlling it, something was working against them. It gave them something to fight, sure, but also something to fight them.

"Let's go," Arthur said suddenly, heading for the door. "It can't have gotten far."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Two shadowhunters, a warlock, and an unseelie faerie wander aimlessly through the streets of San Francisco.

Max tried to think of the punchline to this joke, but they all ended up sounding like "four years of war began," or "a bunch of downworlders died."

"There's nothing," Lexan murmured. "Max, you picking anything up?"

Truthfully, Max was a little overwhelmed by the life-signatures screaming at him. His vision had yet to return to normal, and as a result, every mundane, downworlder or shadowhunter in his field of vision (and in some cases, in buildings and behind walls) were appearing like lighthouses. Except he didn't need to find land. He needed to find whomever stole the Doomsayer's Book.

 _Evangeline was going to skin him alive._

If, he reasoned, she didn't kill him first.

"Max?" Lexan said, but his voice was sharper than kind.

"What? Oh, no, sorry, nothing," Max stammered out. The faerie huffed and turned away. He was built small - narrow shoulders, thin neck, awkward joints - so it was sort of comical, watching him look indignant. That being said, Max wouldn't doubt for a second Lexan's ability to crush him.

Especially in a magic fight. Max tried to inconspicuously swipe his hand over his eyes again, but nothing changed.

Collins had lit up her sight rune, which still burned brightly on the inside of her wrist. Arthur had done the same, and was trailing further behind. The sky was dark above them, it was long past the time they should have been done. Long past midnight, as well. They'd been searching for ages, and apparently, whatever it was definitely had gotten far.

"This is useless," Collins said eventually, throwing her arms in the air and spinning around. She hugged her arms around herself, and Max noticed that she didn't have a jacket of any sort. "This is useless, useless, useless, cold, and useless."

"That's not helping," Lexan muttered, but he too had stopped walking. Their wandering came to a stop, slanted on one ungodly steep street.

"I know," Collins spat. "But maybe if I say it enough, the Angel will save us from this Hell. This is useless. _Useless._ Use-"

"Collins," Art murmured, sounding too tired. She closed her mouth, then her eyes, and Max could see her sigh.

"Let's try again some other day," Max said. "I'll talk to Evangeline-"

"I don't want to get you in trouble," Art complained.

"I don't care," Lexan offered. "My King expected me back hours ago as it was, so we're all in a little bit of trouble. Should we not cut our loses now?"

That was a good point.

"Des probably shouldn't be alone too much longer, either," Collins murmured. "He's alive still, fine, but I don't like leaving him."

"What happened to Desmond?" Arthur said, worried. Max realized they hadn't told Arthur any of what had happened.

"He's just hurt," Collins said. "We tried to summon Orcus to figure out why we were able to leave the Unseelie court, but-"

"That was you?" Max said, tilting his head. He turned to Lexan. "You were the one who came to ask Evangeline."

Lexan nodded. "True. She suggested Orcus. And some foolish shadowhunters to solve out problems."

Max thought this over. He been so focussed on finding the book - and before that, the _compass_ rune - that he hadn't even considered the entire other half of the equation.

"Let's talk to downworlders!" he declared, then watched as Collins hung her head and turned as if she was going to walk into traffic. Lexan grabbed her arm, dragging her back onto the sidewalk.

"Great idea," she exclaimed. "Any other ground breakers in that blue head of yours?"

Max scowled at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he muttered.

"What's your plan?" Arthur asked, much more quieter than any of the others had been.

"There's an entire world that's been struggling with mysteries like this, according to Evangeline," Max began. "Why don't we start by finding some people who've experienced it? Maybe they can't solve the problem, but a dozen different minds might come up with _something._ "

"It's unfortunate that that's the least crappy idea we've had in awhile," Collins said.

"I'm in," Lexan said. "But not tonight. The rest of tonight should be for sleep. And a nice bed. And the distinct silence of a lack of shadowhunters."

Max almost smiled. He knew that feeling all too well.

"Alright. Meet back at Evang-"

"No," Collins interrupted. "Meet at the place we're keeping Des," she corrected. "More neutral, and your boss won't be asking any questions."

"Fair," Max agreed. "But I'll have to deal with whatever to-do's she needs me to do beforehand."

Standing in the cold and dark, and far beyond tired, they all split paths. The shadowhunters off to the Institute, Lexan off to the Unseelie Court. And Max, wandering, vaguely lost, until he reached his apartment again. An hour later.

It was just past three in the morning when he shut the door behind him, pacing into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes, and collapsing down into his bed. His eyes shut, but his brain-

He woke up, yawning and wondering how late he'd slept. He check the time - just before eight. He did not sleep long enough.

Either way, he pushed himself up and moved to the kitchen. He hadn't really stocked up on anything, so he gave up and pulled his shoes and shirt on and stepped out into the hall of his apartment.

He lived in a nice building, with clean walls and air conditioning. His neighbours were all quiet, and all mundane, as far as he could tell. One was heading out of the building now, so Max hung back until she passed, before walking behind, down the stairs.

Once outside, he turned the opposite way as her, heading down the steep street and towards the water's edge. On flat ground, with the ocean stretched out before him, it was a lot more peaceful that the chaos of everything else. Despite that, there was a significantly high number of shadowhunters around Running in pairs, talking, going for morning walks or working out. They were like a hive. None saw through his glamour, though. None except-

"Max?" a familiar voice called. He turned away from the ocean, and saw Arthur making his way across the grass. He was dressed to be running, with headphones clipped to the tips of his ears. Behind him, a girl with tan skin and thick, glossy dark hair was following more slowly.

"Hey," Max said. He envied the shadowhunter's ability to go running in the morning. Max probably couldn't do the warm-up for the run at this point.

"I thought we were-" Arthur froze, probably becoming aware of the other's presence. Or remembering it. He corrected himself, albeit badly. "Talking about the runes at some other point in the day, with Collins, in a neutral location, that's not-"

"I'm going for a walk," Max interrupted.

"Who's this?" the girl demanded, crossing her arms. Unlike Arthur, who seemed to have focussed all of his runes onto his one arm, she was spread evenly along her skin and it made her look spotted, sort of.

"My name is Max Lightwood," he said, smiling politely. She smiled back, then immediately dropped it.

"Like Xavier Lightwood?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Who is Xavier Lightwood?" Max cried, "And when did he become more famous than my father?"

The girl took a step back.

"Xavier Lightwood's a criminal," Arthur said quietly. "He snapped a year or so ago. Killed his wife. His child."

Max felt his stomach twist. What? What? What?

He had to-

He had to-

He had to call…

"I'm not related to him," Max said.

Where had their bloodline gone wrong? What had happened? There's no way - _no way_.

"My father - Alec Lightwood, that's where the name comes from," he explained quickly, shaking himself out.

"My name's Amory Oversong," she declared, either ignoring or not picking up on the stress in his voice.

"Am-"

"Yes," Arthur said quickly, looking back to her. "One half of the royal heirs," he said. Amory grinned at him - in a real way. And Max got the impression she handed out a lot of faux grins.

"Royal-"

"Not literally," Arthur said again, interrupting him. Max wasn't sure he liked that. On the other hand, it seemed like Art was trying to avoid him saying something, or was generally uncomfortable with talking to him. "She's one of Oversong's twins. Basically royalty because she can do whatever she wants."

"Hey!" she exclaimed, shoving him playfully.

Max tried to smile back, but he was still unfocused. Sensing that Arthur, too, wanted to get away from the conversation, he smiled and made up an excuse. "My father's expecting me to call," he said.

"Of course," Arthur agreed, nodding severely. He beckoned Amory away. She gave Max a small wave, and then they were both off running again. Max noticed something he hadn't before, on Arthur - a _parabatai_ rune.

 _Ohhhhhhh_.

Either way, it didn't make a difference to him. He tried to clear his mind the pulled out his phone.

A familiar number.

Please, please, please, please…

 _"Blueberry?"_

"Hey!" Max exclaimed.

 _"Everything all right?"_

"No," he admitted, taking a deep breath. "Did you hear about Xavier Lightwood?" he said, and knew it was either going to go awfully or - well, that's what he thought might happen. If his father did know, he'd have already tried everything. If he didn't know, he had to break the news. Plus, simply bringing up the Lightwood family could be touch or go.

The pause was much too long for comfort.

 _"I've heard of him, yes,"_ Magnus said. Option one, then.

"What happened?" Max asked.

He could hear Magnus pacing around his room, and he could imagine it. The nervous patter of feet, the cats leaping around to avoid his stressing aura. He'd be biting at a nail, a habit Alec had tried for years to break. He might fiddle with the bookcases or shelves.

He heard a glass jar being placed down.

Eventually, his father came back to him.

 _"Look, not everyone in a family can be perfect,"_ he began. _"One descendant is not a reflection of the whole lineage. You'll see that time and time again - you should have seen the Herondales! They've-"_

"Father," Max interrupted. "This isn't some random in the future. This is close. Close to us. Xavier would have been Izzy and Simon's grandchild. Alec's blood. _Blood_. This isn't adoption anymore. Xavier could have been a friend of mine, why did this-"

 _"I tried to explain it to Alec, once,"_ Magnus said, and his voice sounded bitter. Max shut up, because to get Magnus to talk about Alec outside of anecdotes and mantras - in a real, physical way - was nearly impossible nowadays. _"He got all anxious too, when Sam and Michael were young. He was mad, because they were both starting to show signs of discomfort around downworlders. He was livid. You should have seen him-"_

"It's unacceptable, Magnus!" Alec snapped, pacing back and forth. Magnus crossed his arms, leaning back against the couch as he watched his husband circle the room. He ran a hand through scraggly black hair, as if trying to dislodge the disbelief. "After everything - _everything_. And it's our own family!"

"Michael is eleven," Magnus sighed.

"And Sam is eight - he shouldn't even know the words he was using. You weren't in Idris, Magnus. You don't understand-"

"I think I do," Magnus said, standing up. This caught Alec's attention, who stopped pacing and turned to face the warlock fully. "But if I've learned anything from being alive as long as I have, it's that from one generation to a next, well, there's a jump. And nothing guarantees anything."

"I know, sure, but-"

"Alec," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "Think of Stephen and Celine Herondale," he began, reaching out and running his hands down Alec's arms. "Would you ever associate them with Jace?" he said, and left out _or Will_.

"No," Alec said.

"There are bad bunches in every bloodline."

"My nephews are not bad bunches!" Alec shouted, shaking Magnus off him. Alright, so he got careless. But that didn't change anything.

"Of course not," Magnus said. "But you can't expect them all to be angels just because of their parents. Each generation's take work, and if you let that slip you may as well not try at all."

Alec shut his mouth, visibly taking deep breaths. Magnus carefully took a step closer.

"If you're unhappy with them, educate them, help them, reach out," Magnus said softly. "But trust me, when I say that a bloodline can change a whole lot in one generation - let alone ten or eleven."

Alec nodded slowly, lifting a hand to press against his eyes. Magnus knew that look. He was getting a headache himself.

"You'll look out for them, though, right?" Alec said, his voice raw. Magnus frowned.

"Michael and Sam? Of course."

"No," Alec corrected. "The Lightwoods. After I'm gone. You'll educate - help - reach out. Make sure the bad bunches don't get too rotten?"

Magnus swallowed nervously. He didn't like that talk. 'After I'm gone.' Alec didn't have to say it like they had to plan for it. He hesitated, though, before nodding vigorously.

"Of course," he whispered.

"I worry about you," Alec admitted. "And I worry that once you begin to move on, Lightwoods are just going to become another family to you. Like they're not _your_ family."

"You can't expect me to be accepted into the fold," Magnus said. "I'm a warlock."

"So?"

"And I love you for saying that," Magnus went on. "For thinking it's a 'so?' issue. But it's not. It's so much more, and I promise you, I will always watch the Lightwoods - Me and Max together. We'll protect them."

Alec seemed to relax.

"But I can't promise they'll always want us around. Or protect us. And I'll protect Max before anything else."

Alec was nodding now, and he reached out, taking Magnus' hands.

"Thank you."  
"And you'll promise me that you'll look out for us as well," Magnus went on. "And don't get to mad if I don't live up to expectations."

Alec smiled, one of the rare smiles that Magnus knew only him or Max or Rafe could produce, and nodded slowly. "Like you could disappoint me."

 _"-he was livid over Michael and Sam's opinion on shadowhunter-downworlder relations. Of course, it mostly got brushed over, but Michael still left. And I don't think Alec ever really got how dramatic the difference between father and son could be."_

Max nodded, listening.

"Did I ever know Xavier?" he asked.

 _"A little,"_ Magnus admitted. _"When he was young. Very young. You were living in Ontario… He came over one evening for christmas. I think… I think his birthname was Connor."_

Max frowned. Connor Lightwood he knew. From, well, a Christmas dinner. He was cute. Smart. Lively.

"Why the name change?" Max asked.

 _"I don't know how many times I'll have to tell you this, Blueberry, but shadowhunters are drama queens."_

"I know," Max sighed. "But what happened? If he came over for Christmas..?"  
 _"Max, trust me,"_ Magnus said, and he sounded a lot more serious than usual. _"There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't regret what happened with him. I wish I'd been more present. Been more aware, seen the signs quicker, reached out, helped him, found some way - but it's over. And Xavier Lightwood does not defined Eliza or Cliff, or any of the Lightwoods who are good, and kind, and trustworthy._ "

"I-"

 _"Xavier Lightwood was a tragedy,"_ Magnus continued. _"But it is not defining factor of the Lightwood bloodline. Just like I am not the defining factor of you, and Alec did not define Izzy. Blood doesn't matter."_

Max nodded, trying to think of anything to say. The truth was, Magnus did define him. Everything he'd gotten so far was because people trusted his father.

He needed to solve this thing. He needed to figure out why he was aging, and he had to do it quickly. And define himself.

He looked down at his glamoured skin, tan and smooth, and wondered why is was so much harder for downworlders. Shadowhunters always knew who they were. They trained and had runes and talent and a motif to follow. They got _parabatai_ , to help you define yourself. They had everything to show off, to be defined by.

Downworlders got glamours to hide everything, just to survive.

He didn't know, though, if when asked his name, he answered to define himself. Was he Lightwood, was he Bane? Using Lightwood-Bane sounded non-committed.

Warlocks chose their own name anyways.


End file.
